


The Bread-Giving Tree

by RunTheJewels



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Last chapter is the explicit one, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-22 03:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunTheJewels/pseuds/RunTheJewels
Summary: The Wolf-Kissed has developed a habit. One that involves sneaking up to Tarben's stall and stealing off with his wares, with nary a sound to his arrival or departure and Tarben has come to find it bothersome. Whether or not that's due to the too much money Eivor always leaves or Tarben not getting to speak to him as often, he's not sure he can say.He certainly wouldn't mind talking more...
Relationships: Eivor/Tarben (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter One

Tarben cupped as much of the stream as he could into his hands and splashed it into his face. The water was freezing, bracing and both his eyes and ears stung from it. Nothing ever did burn like the cold.

He ran a hand down his face to take off what he could then took up a towel he had left atop a bush to dry the rest of sleep’s grime away. He ran it down his beard and bare chest before taking up his discarded shirt. Tarben moved slowly as he put it back on and refastened his clothing. He took his time, eyes not on his hands but his surroundings, watching the river flow past, the trees on the other side shake in the wind, the blue-gray of the sun rising on what would be a cloudy day.

Tarben shut his eyes and let the breeze run over his face, through his untied hair. When it passed him by, it seemed to take all his troubles with it. He could fall back asleep right there and then if he had a mind to. Still, he rose to his feet and picked up his towel, taking it back into his home and tossing it into some corner he was sure to forget. He picked up the nearest loose bit of string and tied back his hair.

The day would only truly begin after that, preparing the dough, heating the oven. It was routine and at this point, required little in the way of thought on his part. Repetitive, yes but whether or not it was boring was a matter of perspective. Tarben didn’t doubt that the warriors who marched up and down the docks, who would be sleeping off the previous night’s drinking in preparation for the next night’s, would think so. But his younger years were ruled by chaos and violence. Chaos and violence sowed by him, guided by the hands and words of people he trusted, people he loved. People, in some small part of him, he still saw as family. He would never get those years of his life back. Boring was a matter of perspective and from his own, it was preferable. It was good.

So lost was Tarben inside his own head that he was pulling bread from the oven before he knew it and placing them on the bench behind him to cool and be sold. Within a half-hour, those same warriors would come, clamoring for his life’s work. They’d call at one another and yell, they’d jostle each other, jostle his workstation. They’d be more careful around him; the quiet baker with the face of a thug and a body to match his name.

Others would come later, after the first crowd. Yang Li with a sunny smile and a wave, Randvi, with a smaller smile, more polite than genuine, and a distant, distracted look to her eyes. Gunnar would reach over the bench and clap him on the shoulder, hard, as if Tarben were another lump of metal for him to beat into shape. It was he who made the most conversation, told Tarben some of the worst jokes he had ever heard. Svend would join him on occasion, until he no longer could. It would be a few weeks after the ceremony before Tova would come with Gunnar in Svend’s place. Tova would howl at his jokes, just as Svend did and for a moment, it was as if he had never left.

Then there were certain days. Days that caused him no great displeasure but still served to grate on nerves he wished he didn’t still have. It would start the same as always, he’d wake, wash, prepare and bake. Then he would set his wares out to cool and turn his attention away. Only for a few minutes, lest one of the animals around the settlement gain a sense of bravery. When he turned back, he’d find a loaf of bread missing. Gone without a sound, as if carried off by a silent breeze. In its place was a bag of silver, left behind just as quietly.

The Wolf-Kissed was home, it seemed. The life Tarben used to live wasn’t so far gone that he had lost his wits. He wasn’t a man most people could sneak up on. Only one other could approach and leave so silently and Hytham, at least, had the good manners to announce himself when he did.

For the few weeks their raven-bearer wasn’t roaming up and down the Saxon kingdoms, this would happen. No matter how much it did, Tarben seemed incapable of catching him in the act or even walking away from the scene. He’d catch a raven staring at him sometimes, from the trees. It would wait until his eyes landed on it and then it would start cawing, as if it were laughing.

Tarben lips pursed into a grimace when he picked up the cloth sack, tied off with a piece of string. Without counting, he could already tell it was too much. Too heavy, too noisy when he shifted it between his fingers. He turned his head from one side to the other, hoping to catch Eivor slinking away. Pointless, the man could take his bread, leave his money and then be half back to Norway before Tarben noticed. No announcement, no greeting, no conversation, not a word to him and this bothered Tarben only slightly more than the too much money the Norseman left behind.

Loading the next batch into the oven, Tarben took up the sack of coins and upended it. He separated the excess, stashed away his due, sealed the change back into the bag and began making his way up to the longhouse, muttering polite but distracted greetings to those on his way. When he got inside and let his eyes adjust to the dark, he took in the smattering of people like Wallace and Holger before his gaze landed on Eivor’s bedroom. He approached, just as a dark-haired, heavyset man came stomping out with the face of a thundercloud. Dag Nithisson, Tarben remembered as he stood out of the other man’s path. When he passed by, Tarben could then see Eivor reclining in bed, fully clothed but for his boots, tossed off to the side.

Tarben could never be as hidden as him and was noticed before he reached the doorway. “Bread-Tree,” Eivor’s greeting was teasing but warm and genuine, “Always good to see you.”

For just a second, curiosity overtook him. He nodded his head back towards the exit. “Is something wrong with Dag?”

“Maybe. I wasn’t listening.”

The tenseness in his smile told him that was a lie. Tarben knew when a point needed to be dropped. “Also ‘Bread-Tree’?”

“Well, you’re a baker, are you not? As well as…” he took his hand from behind his head and gestured to Tarben, up and down, “Half giant.”

“One of those is correct.”

“You’re not a baker?”

Despite himself, Tarben snorted. A terrible nickname but fair. If he had a silver for every joke he’s heard about blocking out the sun from Gunnar alone…

“To what do I owe this visit, good Bread-Tree?”

Tarben blinked. Then he stepped forward and held the bag out.

“What’s this?”

“Your change. You left too much silver. Again.”

“Did I now?” Eivor’s lips began to curl up again, “What makes you think I took anything?” he then asked.

Tarben had little time for these charades, saying, “Three pieces too much this time.”

Unfazed, the Wolf-Kissed only grinned wider. “Ah, my mistake.” He held out his hand and caught the sack when Tarben tossed it at his chest. “My thoughts have a habit of getting away from me sometimes. Remind me, what are your prices?”

This would be his fifth reminder. “Two pieces for a half, four for full. Five, if you want it custom made.”

“Right, right, of course,” said Eivor. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” He gestured to Tarben with the bag, “Your honesty is appreciated, friend.”

* * *

It was a new day, a new morning and Tarben was stomping his way back up to the longhouse, sack of coins squeezed in his fist. Two over, this time. One less than yesterday. This was getting tiring.

He got past the large tree nearest the building when he heard Eivor’s voice behind him. He backtracked and found him, lazing under it, eyes on the docks and the river. “I felt the ground shaking and thought either Ragnarok had come or Dag,” he shrugged, “Between the two, I would’ve preferred Ragnarok but you’ll do.”

Tarben only held out the sack again. When he spoke, he took both notice and shame in the way his voice was clipped. “You left me too much.”

“My apologies again, Bread-Tree. Counting has never been my strong suit, I only have so many fingers.”

“It is Tarben. “Not ‘Tree’.”

“It is while you’re blocking my sun.”

Surprisingly, that took the wind out of his sails. Tarben shifted to the side, looking down at the coin and at Eivor, at the crumbs in his golden beard. “Most people make some sort of conversation at least,” he found himself saying, “A greeting. An occasional inquiry into my well-being…”

“Do you talk to every customer who stops by? Are you really so starved for something to do?”

“No…”

“Then just think of me as another customer.”

Tarben snorted derisively. “Hard to do, given that you built the place I live and work in,” he tried to argue.

“Was no great effort on my part,” Eivor said, “The way I think with my stomach more often than is wise. Randvi had to convince me to build Hytham’s place before the alehouse.”

Again, despite himself, Tarben’s frown loosened into a small grin. He stepped forward, blocking Eivor’s light again, and squat down. He took up the other’s smaller hand into his own, earning himself a pair of raised brows, and pressed the sack into his palm, along with the sixth reminder of his prices.

“As you like, Bread-Tree.” His response came so softly, Tarben just barely caught it. He stepped away and with one last nod, departed. He could feel Eivor’s eyes on his back as he did. They never left him. The feeling of Eivor’s skin against his own never left him either.


	2. Chapter Two

Several days passed Tarben without incident. The more that did, the more Tarben began to believe Eivor’s promise to behave himself. He knows he hasn’t left the settlement. Tarben still saw him around and about, working on his weapons with Gunnar or discussing weighty matters in the shadows of Valka’s hut. Rarely did Eivor’s attention turn towards him. Only on the off chance did the two of them happen to meet eyes did the Norseman give him any sort of regard.

Then a day came where their impasse was at an end. Bread put out to cool, gone, with a pile of silver in its place. Not a word, not a sound. As soon as the initial startlement of being so easily snuck up on _again_ wore off, Tarben counted the money out to five pieces. A single coin more than he had asked for.

Tarben let out a long sigh, scratching his beard with mild irritation. He knew a challenge when he saw one. The Wolf-Kissed was daring him to come, come to him and say something. He had half a mind to do just that. The longhouse was where he was likely to be. He could march his way up there, find him and…

He sighed again, even longer this time. He was being ridiculous, working himself up over something like this. Eivor was the man who, at a stroke, had given him the means to start a new life here, lead a better life. He had always lived in groups but this was the first time in years he could watch the faces of people he lived with, rather than having to watch their hands. Yet he was complaining. _About being overpaid, no less_. It would be different if he had just pocketed the money without mention but he had mentioned it. Multiple times and in doing so, he realized it was no true folly, as the Wolf-Kissed so badly pretended. Eivor was just giving him the extra silver. For what reason, Tarben couldn’t begin to guess.

He picked up the coins and took them inside. His due, the first four pieces of silver, he locked away with the rest of his money. But he resolved not to seek out Eivor. Instead, he took the last one, wrapped it into a sack and hid it away. Somewhere he could remember or forget it if he wished. When he spoke to Eivor again, it would be when he came down to buy. Tarben owed him much, despite Eivor’s vehement disagreement and yet, Tarben knew nothing about him.

This short break in Eivor’s knavery had made Tarben complacent. No longer. He’d be by again and this time? This time, Tarben would catch him.

* * *

Grudgingly and only to himself, Tarben admitted that this might have been easier to say than do. Eivor was even harder to spot than had been expected. It was as if he had read Tarben’s mind, heard his silent declaration and laughed. It had become a game of sorts; in what ways could Eivor make off with his food and avoid being spotted?

If it was a game, Tarben was losing to the point of embarrassment. He had taken to looking back at his bench every few seconds, even when his attention should be held by whatever task was at his front. Eivor would take his food, leave his money and then not come back for a random number of days. Sometimes, even hours, forcing him to remain on his toes for all hours of a workday.

Holger had come by for a purchase. As one of the “most customers” Tarben had mentioned to Eivor, Holger talked. And talked. _And talked_ . Waffled on in the baker’s ear about his developing projects, his _brilliant_ ideas, complained about his _horrible_ neighbor, waxed poetic about his own artwork. The man had a high opinion of himself, Tarben would give him that. The chattering drew on and being too polite to cut it short, Tarben listened, nodding, humming where he assumed it would be appropriate and worked all the while, lest he fall asleep on his feet.

His patience paid off. As Tarben set out another batch to cool, Holger picked up his purchase and gave a bow, “With that, I leave you to your work, my good baker, and return to mine.”

_God is good_. Tarben gave little more than a faint hum and a strained smile as farewell before turning back to the oven. To his left, traveling up the path towards the longhouse, he heard Holger call out, “We can continue this discussion another time, Tarben but it was good speaking to you! Would have never taken you as an admirer of the arts had Eivor not mentioned it.”

It took a heartbeat for the words he had just heard to click in his head. It took only another for him to whirl around back towards the bench, nearly tripping over his own toes and toppling in the process. Tarben growled, glowering at the pile of silver placed square in the center of his counter, where moments before had been a loaf of bread.

Footsteps drew his eyes back up. “You’ll burn your bread with all that talking you do, Bread-Tree.” Eivor strode past, deliberately loud, knocking crumbs from his beard, within which was a barely hidden smirk. Tarben glared at the back of his head until he reached the docks, disappearing into the barracks. Only then did Tarben take up the money and as before, separate the excess and stash it away, deciding it was time to close up for the evening and try again with the new day. **  
**

* * *

Nothing changed with the new day. Tarben almost had to admire the creativity with which Eivor came up with his little heists. At first, the man had just resorted to sneaking. Then, he used people, such as Holger and now, even animals seemed to do his bidding.

Aside from the Wolf-Kissed, birds were Tarben’s greatest annoyance, which was to be expected. Sometimes he’d take debris left behind by the fuller loaves or take a badly made piece and reduce it to crumbs, throwing it out and away from his workstation. For the most part, that worked. The birds would steer clear of him and go for the easier meal on the ground, far away from the giant who was large even by giant standards. Others would remain unsatisfied and the stomping Saxon would have to stomp after them, forcing them to reconsider how brave they were feeling at the moment.

One bird, one day, had no patience for Tarben’s blustering and an appetite for more than meager crumbs. Tarben never saw it coming. Just knew that his quiet day had been abruptly ended by a mass of wildly flapping dark wings and loud, harsh cries. The bird, black as the night, swooped down without a hint of hesitation, startling Tarben but only so. It left him unharmed, going not for him but for one of the smaller bread loaves Tarben had just put out. With another several beats of its wings, it was back in the air again, prize held tightly and proudly in its talons.

Gathering himself, Tarben came out from under the shade of his roof to see if he could spot it disappearing into the tree line. He did not.

For the second time that day, Tarben nearly leapt out of his skin when something heavy fell from his roof, thudding to the ground just behind him. He twisted around to find Eivor, half-eaten bread in one hand and the black-winged thief perched on the shoulder of the other. “Not very creative, I admit,” he mused, burping slightly and beating his chest with a fist, “But it gets the job done.” He put the loaf of bread between his teeth, reached towards his back and tossed a sack of coin onto the table behind Tarben, finally snapping him out of his daze.

Eivor nodded to the bewildered baker, pulled the bread from his mouth and saluted him with it. Tarben’s gaze was searing as it stayed on Eivor’s back towards the longhouse, tearing off a piece of bread for his raven and yanking his fingers away with a yelp when the bird almost accepted that as food too.

Tarben found his voice moments later and it gave him nothing but guttural growling and barely restrained curses. Most were aimed at himself. The man’s a raven-bearer. A raven may be involved. Next would be dogs, cats. Maybe he’d go back to people, just for the variety.

The cursing died away and a small, almost silent laugh, slipped through Tarben’s lips. Maybe it was a game. If it was, he was enjoying himself, even if it was just a tiny bit. He was never the best loser.


End file.
